
• •• '• 























■ 

COPYRIGHT 1923 
BY 

WILLARD JENNINGS DAY 

V| 



THE POWELL PRESS, Inc. 
Printers 

Shelbyville, Indiana 



William Jennings Day, Author 


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Words can not express my gratitude 
for the help and inspiration given me by 
two beloved college professors—Charles 
W. Snow and Lynn Harold Harris; three 
devoted high school instructors of my 
senior year — Ruby Lucile Randolph, 
Frederick R. Garver and Leowen Jones 
lately deceased, and my dear, dear folks— 
to whom I humbly inscribe this book. 

The Author 



i H 


n ’ 


CONTENTS 


A Rustic Sings ___ 

An Earthly Paradise _ 

The Star’s Message _ 

Riches __ 

An Interrupted Graveyard Chat_ 

If One Gould Understand_ 

The Whistler_ 

Contentment_ 

The Poet And The Angel’s Harp_ 

Fame _ 

Jim Hanks __ 

On Dying Young_ 

Politics __ 

Brutes _____ 

Mourners _ 

Civilized _____ 

The Thinker On The Street_ 

Recompense _____ 

An Humble Tribute To A Great Man 

Soul’s Absence _ 

Youth Grows Inquisitive 

Indolence _ 

Life _ 

A Prescription __ 

Joys _ 

A Leaf From The Poetree 

Nothing To Do__ 

An Optimist _ 

Away Attending School _~_ 

Devotion__~ 

Forgetting __ 

Quarreling _ 


. 7 

. 7 

8 

9 

10 

11 

12 

13 

14 

17 

18 

19 

19 

20 

22 

23 

24 

24 

25 

25 

26 

26 

27 

27 

27 

27 

28 

28 

29 

30 

31 

31 


4 


































Love___ 32 

A Leaf From The Poetree__ 32 

Mother _ 33 

In Dreams _ 34 

A Leaf From The Poetree_ 34 

M’ Fust Date Wid Sal_ 35 

A Leaf From The Poetree _36 

Homeward Bound _36 

A Fracture _ _ 37 

Anger-37 

The Muse Sends The Rustic Courting_38 

One Smile From You_ 39 

Nicknames_ 40 

After Services__ 41 

A Love Letter_ 42 

The Mendit Man _ 43 

A Lover Questions _44 

Lost Love _ 44 

I Can Not Write You Any More _ 45 

Two Prisoners_46 

June_ 46 

An Accidental Proposal_ 47 

A Lover’s Song_^_48 

Repentant_ 49 

May _ 49 

Dreams _ 50 

Her Eyes _ 50 

Jolly Willie _ 51 

The Girl I Love _ 52 

Bored __ _ _52 

When Ma’s Bobbin Runs Out_53 

Quiet Love_ 53 

The Hippercrit _54 

Conceited _ __ 54 

The Rheumatiz_55 

Self Invited _55 


5 






































When Sister’s Got A Beau_ 56 

While Brother Writes A Poem_57 

Back At Boggstown_ 58 

First Song Of Spring __ 59 

April Fool_ 60 

April Showers__ 61 

Pulling The Wishbone _ 61 

Sugarin’ Time_;_62 

A Lover’s Dream_62 

Agreeable _ 62 

The Hero___ 63 

To A Lost Sweetheart ____64 

April _ 65 

Sunday Morning _ 65 

A Call Of The Open _ 66 

Spring _ 67 

A Farm Boy’s Version _67 

Let Me Fish _ 68 

Tales Of Fishing_ 68 

Fitting _____ _____ _ 68 

Ain’t It Hot To-day_69 

August-69 

God’s Gentlemen __ 69 

An Autumn Song _ 70 

A Day In Late October_71 

Goolee-goo Land _ 72 

Reflections _ 72 

Pert Nigh Thanksgiving _ 73 

The Man I Hate _ 74 

December _ 75 

Pa’s Razor Strop_ 75 

A November Thought _ 76 

Epilogue- 76 


6 



































A RUSTIC SINGS 


A youth would sing his simple songs, 

And sing them in his simple way; 

He would not rid the world of wrongs, 

Nor would he let these same wrongs stay. 

The songs he sings will be of you, 

Of long corn rows, of wedding rings, 

They may be simples as the dew— 

For ’tis a common rustic sings. 

Perhaps he’ll sing about the bee 

That flirts with every June-time rose; 

He may reveal the melody 

Of bird-songs where the maple grows. 

His songs may be of brooding vales, 

Of laughing hills—the vine that clings 

To yonder straggling, moss-grown rails 
May weave a song the rustic sings. 

He hears the wind-songs and he pours 
As best he can the songs he’s heard; 

He thanks God for that great out-doors 
He made for man and beast and bird. 

He will not sing in one set way, 

His themes shall be of any thing; 

He only hopes that one heart may 
Bend ear to hear a rustic sing! 


AN EARTHLY PARADISE 

A book of verses, pencil, and a pad; 

A summer’s day beneath a shady bough, 

With bees close humming; and a heart that’s glad— 
The sweetest Paradise Earth will allow! 


7 


THE STAR’S MESSAGE 


The youth sat in the doorway of his tent 
And dreamily gazed at the starlit skies— 
Unmindful of his pals who came and went 

And spoke to him. Warm tears came to his eyes 
As he cried out: “0 wond’rous stars, to-night 
Smile down upon my mother far away 
And tell her that her son—that I’m all right— 
That we still hold the enemy at bay. 
To-morrow evening, say, I’ll take my place 

As sentry—guarding sleeping brothers—and 
If she’ll but to you, wise stars, turn her face, 

I shall look, too—and we shall understand.” 

Next eve the mother, bent with age, and gray, 

Up from her humble porch gazed at the sky, 
Dreaming a dream of one far, far away— 

Dreamed of her boy. A bright star caught her 
eye, 

And as she looked, there suddenly appeared 
The vision of a youth in khaki fit— 

Her boy! she cried-a father would have cheered— 
What meant it all? E’en as she gazed at it 
There was a flash—that same star earthward 
came— 

And as it rushed it seemed to fire the sky. 

The mother swooned-revived-cried out his name; 
She felt disaster—thought she saw him die! 


8 


The youth in camp trod slowly to and fro 
Searching the bushes for the slightest stir; 

Or stole soft glances at the skies as though 

Those stars above might speak a word of her. 
He failed to note three shadows creeping near— 
Three skulking men, with bayonet and gun— 
So sweet were thoughts of home—of parents dear! 

Three flashes tore the night, but came as one— 
The youth pitched forward! With Death’s wierd- 
est cry 

Convulsed—grew still—anfi lo ! there fell a 
star! 

The whole camp roused. Old Satan, sneaking by, 
Whispered: “’Tis. Hell— you only think ’tis 
war!” 


RICHES 



For shining gold I’d thank not God, 

Nor for great jewels would I give praise; 
I fear I’d trample Satan’s sod, 

And follow in his worldly ways. 

But for God’s gifts—a merry heart, 

And constant love of fellow men— 

As thanks, I do the Christian’s part, 

I try to pass them on again. 


9 


AN INTERRUPTED GRAVEYARD CHAT 


One dark night from their graves arose 
Five cousins who had dwelt on earth, 

And quivering—they had no clothes— 

They spake of what a life was worth. 

They talked of myriad things they did 
Before their mortal lives were past; 

And glad they were, it seemed, to rid 

Themselves of these—for they talked fast. 

Lank Pleasure leaned upon his tomb 
And said: “In life I danced and sang 

And dined and drank; from every room 
Of my great mansion revels rang; 

I courted joys from eve to dawn, 

And spent my wealth—now all is gone!” 

“Ho! Ho!” cried Avarice, “Thou hast 
Found Life a liar, as I did. 

And Death, the thief of thy gay past 
Hast tricked me—he my notes out-bid; 

And now I sit here, fleshless, bare, 

Upon a grave owned by my heir.” 

Wailed Selfishness, the leanest there, 

The frailest skeleton of all, 

“When I had life I had one care— 

’Twas to avoid the Needy’s call. 

Oh! how I mourned the slightest loss— 

And now my wond’rous gold is dross.” 


10 


Sweet Charity, on bended knee, 

Said: “Cousins, though my lot was small, 
As long as there was life in me 
I gave to poor, to weak, to all; 

And here, when I came to my grave, 

I found more riches than I gave.” 

Procrastination sighed, and said: 

“ ‘That life on earth is short’, is true, 

For in my grave I now am dead 

Before I’d done the things I’d do; 

I put them off—”.a peeping moon 

Drove all back to their graves, too soon! 


IF ONE COULD UNDERSTAND 

I think God makes his flowers to fade 
So’s we’ll enjoy them more, 

And storms the ocean’s water so’s 
We’ll ’predate the shore; 

The glad sun smiles down warmer 
If a rain’s just passed along, 

And sorrow is a whetstone that 
Will brighten any song. 

Life always gives its warmest days, 
Unless one asks for cold; 

Who handles baser metals will 
Be tantalized by gold; 

The world will ride on feathers, if 
You don’t drive it on sand; 

And pain, I bet’s, a pleasure— 

If one just could understand! 


11 



THE WHISTLER 

I heard him while he was three blocks away, 

His sweet tunes drifting clearly through the 
air, 

A merry chap he seemed on that dull day— 

I thought, “None can be happier any where!” 
I waited long, time dragged before he came, 
Impatiently I felt that he was slow; 

“His life is happy; 0 were mine the same!” 

I £>adly mused, for mine seemed steeped in woe. 

Then came soft clicks—pray, what? My wonder 
grew, 

I turned my head in time to see him swing— 
A wreck—-as sadly as old church bells do 

Between supports, two crutches held the thing! 
And these had jammed his shoulders till they 
loomed 

As two harsh mountains, towering o’er his 
head; 

His cheeks, where once youth’s gayness sweetly 
bloomed, 

Were wan and sad for fdys from him had fled. 

I felt a shudder racing down my spine, 

0 God, I—strong and well—had longed for 
those— 

Wished that a man’s deformities were mine, 

I ignorantly—had envied wretched woes ! 
When he had passed I shut my eyes and cried, 
“How can he sing—this spectre, weird and 
grim?” 

Then Sympathy, I thought, spoke from my side, 
“He whistles only tunes that God taught him !” 

12 


CONTENTMENT 

This old world just ain’t so bad, 

Unless ’tis bad we make it; 

When trouble’s mine I’m aff’ly glad 
I’m livin’ so’s to take it. 

A sport I ain’t, I don’t dress fine, 

I ain’t inclined to hurry; 

I’m satisfied—what’s mine is mine— 

And I’ve no cause for worry. 

I’ve fussed and cussed and hummed and hawed, 
Like every common fellar, 

And raised long-green, and spit, and chawed, 
And let my teeth grow yellar. 

I’ve never found a pot of gold, 

Hard knocks have been my treasures; 

Life’s mostly rocks and bumps, I’m told— 

But ain’t the smooth spots pleasures! 

Now,, when it rains, I shouts and sings 
Like I’se w T orth forty dollars, 

Or if the sun a warm day brings, 

I whistles and I hollers. 

A storm-tossed sea has been my course, 

And oft I’ve nearly stranded; 

Yet every time, though things look worse 
Than e’er before, I’ve landed. 

This old world just ain’t so bad, 

Unless ’tis bad we make it; 

When trouble’s mine I’m aff’ly glad 
I’m living so’s to take it! 


13 


THE POET AND THE ANGEL'S HARP 

'Twas summer, and the evening winds were still, 
Dark clouds began to shade the starlit sky 
As if 'twould storm. A mournful whip-poor-will 
Broke out in song, an owl did weirdly cry. 
Beside her grave a brooding poet sat, 

A saddened poet, mourning; oft a tear 
Stole down his cheek—no lover can help that— 
Tears are but Memory's kisses for those dear! 
Her death had wrecked the poet's harp; above 
She vainly listened for his songs of Love. 

There came no strains, no, not the smallest tune— 
He had no song since Hope, his harp, was 
-^crushed. 

He sawl£ cloud obscure a drowsy moon; 

And as he watched it felt his eyelids pushed, 
Against his will, until his senses left 

For that strange land where wond'rous dreams 
are made. 

Sweet dreams! He saw a lover, unbereft, 

Walk hand in hand with Love-—and unafraid! 
The kind of love that had been his desire 
Belonged to those in that land who’d inquire. 

And as he dreamed he felt a gentle touch, 

A hand upon his shoulder, icy, chill; 

But drugged by want of sleep he cared not much 
To wake—sweet Sleep had bound and gagged 
his will. 

Again he felt the hand, its gentle shake, 

Again to rise he did but little try, 

Then came a third, and lo! now wide awake 
He shrank with fear at what did meet his eve 
for close beside him stood—was it a ghost? 

0r was ^ she whom he, of all, loved most? * 

14 


He closed his eyes. He thought, “Do they mislead? 
Could I be mad?” He looked, and still there 
stood 

She whom he loved—and had just mourned as 
dead— 

The purest, fairest type of womanhood! 

A wond’rous harp lay lightly in her arm, 

A harp of pure gold, of rich design; 

Clusters of jewels gave to it added charm. 

“0,” cried the poet, “If that harp were mine, 

I’d make this Earth a saintly place to live. 

To conquer Sin, my life I’d galdly give!” 

“Take thou this harp,” said she, “Harp of three 
strings, 

And sing three songs to all things on this 
Earth, 

That more here may aspire to angel’s wings. 

Play well the first string, first song, that of 
Birth; 

And thrum the second even till the dove, 

The snake, the beast, the human seek a mate, 

For that string touches all hearts—’tis of Love— 
A theme that often makes the humble great. 

The third song, great song, last one thou shalt 
sing, 

Shall be of Death—and played on the third 
string.” 


15 


‘‘Sing simply, too, that worms may understand; 

Let thy strains be for poor, for rich, for all; 
God many poets—great like you—has planned 
Because he’d have them help bring Evil’s fall. 
One day, then I’ll come back for harp and you; 

One day—one more—as God has set the date, 
And until them, my Love, all you’ve to do 

Is but to sing these songs of God—and wait! 
Good-bye!” The poet rubbed his wondering eyes— 
She’d disappeared as mists into the skies. 


At twilight with his song of Birth there came 
The hungry cry of wee birds fresh from shell, 
Soft whimperings of babes—none got with shame, 
The fret of awkward bee from clammy cell, 
Low bleatings of a nanny to her son, 

The whinny of a colt—its mother’s neigh, 
The rose with opening petals, and the sun 

Peeped o’er the Earth’s great rim—another 
day! 

And with these births a virtue, too, was born_ 

True Happiness her first light saw that morn. 

Till noon he sang of Birth. Then struck the string 
Of Love, and hearts of old and young beat fast, 
Men quit their fields, their shops, quit everything 
For fear such bliss was far too sweet to last. 
Across the lawn were heard two cooing doves, 
Two butterflies were wooing in the field,’ 

A tender tulip blushed for all her loves, 

A bumble-bee refused—that she might yield! 
Love found all things; the Earth of Sin was rid, 
And loud grew praise of what the poet did. 

16 


Thus went the song of Love till evening fell, 

And then the bard prepared his final song. 

’Tis right to praise one who saves souls from Hell, 
One who destroys the roads that lead to Wrong. 

E’en as they praised he touched the final string, 
Wilder with each great note his passion grew; 

He sang of Death the pleasure of the thing— 
“Ah, Death’s a task,” he sang, “that all must 
do.” 

If soft his strains were, or were mountain high, 

They ever echoed: “Man is born to die.” 

His fervor knew no bounds, he wildly rapped 
The third string, bringing music strange and 
sad; 

But as he did it, suddenly loud snapped 

That string in two—as if our great God had 

Caused it to break for fear the poet might 
Gloat o’er his songs and walk with blinded 
eyes— 

An angel quickly came to Earth that night 
And carried harp and singer to the skies. 

The bard thus sang the mysteries of Life; 

And thus the bard ceased all his worldly strife! 


FAME 

And what is Fame? The most infamous love it— 
The undeserving often feel above it. 

Who pant for glory soon grows short of breath, 
And is refreshened only through kind Death. 


17 


JIM HANKS 


Jimmie Hanks was a queer old chap— 

Lazy and good for nothing, folks said; 

Loved to do nothing but fish and trap, 

’Twas the bold free life that he loved and led. 

No church for him—he found his God 
Out in the open where Nature dwells; 

In the water and under the clod 

He read the story the Great Book tells. 

His friends were few, for who loves the poor? 

Who loves the man in tatters and threads? 
Who loves the man who minds his own door? 
Mankind loves men with horns on their heads. 

The goat of the town is man’s to ride— 

Jim was their brute, and he got his share 
Of all their curses and slams; his pride 

Was beaten and dragged and bruised and bare. 

But he bore it well. Then came that day 

When the dam bursted, the flood swept down 
Carrying Ike Henderson’s house away— 

Family and all—’twas sure they’d drown! 

Then the neighbors came—and loudly prayed 
That those in the death-trap might be saved T 
But Hope lounged herself in Despair’s shade 
And scoffed at the mortals as they raved. 

A sudden splash in the stream nearby! 

Then in a moment a head arose, 

And simultaneously came the cry: 

Who is it: Who is the fool that goes? 


18 


But the fool fought on ! Men stood aghast 

Till he reached the house, then-babe in hand- 
Turned for the shore—and reached it at last! 
Wild were the cheers when he reached the 
land! 

Jim was their hero! Say, when he died, 

Late in the fall of the selfsame year, 

Neither a woman, nor child, but cried— 

Never a man but shed a tear. 

After his body was lain to rest, 

Over his grave ’twas carved on stone: 

“Gone is a man who has served his best . 

Gone is a brother we y re proud to own ” 


ON DYING YOUNG 

Fve often wondered why it is that God 
Calls home his loved so early after birth; 

And now I know—at least, I think I do— 

He fears to risk His virtuous on earth. 

Black Evil has her snares on every side, 

And Sin her pitfalls in sweet Honor’s path; 
So God, the All Wise, gleans His Virtue first, 
Less pious Christians are His Aftermath. 


POLITICS 

Poor ignorant John, in hot pursuit, 

Climbs up the tree to shake his fruit; 
But clever Jim, (below is still), 

While John is shaking, gets his fill. 


19 


BRUTES 1 


Yesterday a man 
Passed by on a bay 
At a fast gallop. 

Suddenly the beast ^ < 

Stumbled and fell down, 

Tumbling the rider ^ 

Harshly upon his 
Head in the dusty 
Road between the tired 
Horse's iron-shod feet. 

The beast nimbly strove 
To avoid trampling 
The much-frightened man 
While he was down, and 
Harmed him not the least. 

Yet the man, arising, 

Jerked the horse and cursed 
Madly: “Damn that brute!" 

n •. v 

This morning a man 
Passed through town walking; 

The wind blew his hat 
Into the river, 

The fain soaked through his 
Thin coat, but nowhere 
Could he beg a cap 
Or find a welcome 
Near a warm fire. He 
Was hungry, for his 
Entrails growled; yet none 
Would give him crumb or 
Morsel. Old pals shunned 

20 


Him, the hard-hearted 
Blue-coat on the street 
Corner kicked him and 
Cried: “Beggar, move on!” 

His baby died—the 
Wife went to her babe— 

And he, too, grew ill. 

A lodge gave him five 
Dollars; but the Church 
Stayed at home: A CHURCH 
IS NOT TO HELP FOLKS 
IN DISTRESS, ANY WAY, 

BUT TO TEACH MEN LOVE 
FOR THE CHRIST WHO DIED 
ON THE CROSS THAT HE 
MIGHT SAVE POOR SINNERS 
FROM ETERNAL DAMNATION! 

The doctor called once; 

But, seeing the man 
Was poor, he would not 
Return. The man died; 

And the County spent 
Thirty-five dollars 
For burial, which the 
Board called wasteful— 
Uncalled-for expense. 

Then the board members 
Rode forth in autos— 

Furnished by voters 
Who also paid for 
The gas they burned, and 


21 


Gave them seven or 
Eight dollars a day 
For official duties 
Which were given some 
Attention between 
Strokes on the golf links. 

Now, thinking of this, 

I got angry and 
Cried aloud to God; 

“Damn those brutes! A man 
Is less the Christian 
Than his beastly horse!” 


MOURNERS 

When poor men lie 
In death—in peace, 
Their sorrows die, 

Their joys increase. 

Few watch their deaths 
With clutching hands— 
Poor men’s last breaths 
Can give no lands! 

When rich men die 
Their relatives 
Linger close by, 

(As bees ’round hives). 

Kin’s shameless hands— 
Ere rich grow cold— 
Divide prized lands, 

Spend hoarded gold! 

22 


CIVILIZED 


Ah! send your Foreign Missions out 
To distant lands to win 
The native’s souls to God; and shout 
With joy as they come in. 

Our strikers shoot man down at will, 
E’en though his life be prized; 

But what care we if strikers kill— 

Are not we civilized? 

Yes, send your money to Japan, 

Hawaii needs a bit; 

Old Africa has one black-man 

Whose soul—well, God needs it! 

We have no need for church or school; 

You needn’t be surprised 
That we’re content as strikers rule 
With guns—we’re civilized. 

A poor brown-man has gone astray, 

So we speed o’er the sea 
To save his soul—we can’t delay— 

For Christianity. 

At home we find the dead in piles— 
Deaths that have been devised 
By angry strikers!—We with smiles 
Applaud our civilized. 

0 God, I’d have you save the souls 
Of heathens o’er the sea, 

I’d have you keep them from the shoals, 
And teach them love for Thee. 

But, first, God, to these men, I pray— 
These strikers ill-advised— 

Come, teach them that ’tis wrong to slay, 
E’en though one’s civilized. 


23 


THE THINKER ON THE STREET 


He walks with bowed head down the street, 
With slow but certain stride; 

He sees no friends whom he might greet, 
They watch from either side. 

As troubled waters sways his mind, 
Concernment makes his tired eyes blind. 

He passes, friends smile, some few nod; 

But one so occupied 

Walks with Philosophy—and God, 

So fools gape open-eyed ! 


RECOMPENSE 

Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou 
shalt find it after many days. 

—Ecclestiastes xi. 11. 
Cast thy bread upon the waters, 

Leave it whirl and swirl and sway 
Till it finds the soul that totters 
As it drifts along the way. 

Cast again—forget thine other; 

Heap thy heart with kindness high, 

So’s to hold thy stumbling brother 
From the pitfalls lurking nigh. 

Then, when sorrow ceases straying, 

All thy gifts will be redeemed; 

And you’ll find that God is paying 

Higher interest than you’ve dreamed. 

24 


AN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO A GREAT MAN 


America is proud of this one man 
Because he dared to do what others feared. 
Reverses were but spurs; and though men sneered 
At his grave words, yet bravely he began 
Hi s great struggle ’gainst Slavery. Rather than 
Allow that foul fiend to grow he appeared, 
Mankind to save, and was to man endeared! 

Life was the price—but that’s American! 

I s it not glorious to have fought, and died— 

No coward is loved by our wise God above— 
Combating Slavery by strokes well applied? 

O Valiant Lincoln, whom the angels love, 

Left by thee is sweet Freedom in her pride; 

No man’s done more, thy grandeur thou didst 
prove! 


SOUL’S ABSENCE 

’Tis not me whom you see drinking in the beauty 
of the skies 

From this unfeeling earth; 

’Tis only my inert body—with cold, immovable 
eyes, 

(Eyes are of little worth 

While the soul is gone)—patiently awaiting its 
soul’s return 

From a long, sweet, dreamy flight afar— 

Far, far into that mad vastness for which poets 
sadly yearn, 

There to love, to be loved by a star! 


25 


YOUTH GROWS INQUISITIVE 


It's October! Yes, I know, 

’Cause ok Jack Frost told me so. 

Time to gather hickory-nuts; 

Early morning breeze ’ist cuts 
Clean through every stitch one’s got— 
Then at noon jest blazin’ hot. 

Leaves a-fallin’, grasses die, 

Yet, somehow, I can’t see why 
God has all these things occur— 

Can you tell me—what’s it fer? 

Seems that folks are just that way— 
Spry and feeling fine to-day; 

Then to-morrow, like as not, 

Health’s a-failin’ an’ they got 
Only jest a little spell 
To hang on; they don’t get well, 

Then God comes and, by the hand, 

Leads them to His Promised Land. 

Say, why does this thing occur? 

Can you tell me—what’s it fer? 


INDOLENCE 

Why do you live an idle life, 

And ever do but naught? 

There never was an idle brain 
But sailed to evil thought. 

Upon our earth there’s much to do, 
Things that we should do well • 

A worker here sails with God’s crew— 
An idler steers to Hell! 

26 


LIFE 


Youth: 

With awkward feet the paths of Life are trod 
By Youth; o'er simple clods he falls; his gait’s 
A sloven wabble; he is blind to God; 

His life’s a blunder, so he damns the Fates. 

Manhood: 

The soul grows, and the mind assumes more 
space, 

For Manhood is a time when struggle’s done;. 
Great rocks jut from the unsuspected place— 
Life’s fiercest battles then are lost, or won. 

Old Age: 

The rose has faded, leaving bare the thorn; 
Sweet skulking Death holds nigh the ready net. 
Fond hopes burn low—reflecting only scorn— 
. Old Age despairs, then dies of deep regret. 

A PRESCRIPTION 

A laugh, a grin, a smile—or two— 

Will give relief when one feels blue. 

JOYS 

Joys are like snows spilled in a desert’s lap— 
One moment cheering—next they melt away; 
Yet memory oft deserts a pleasant nap 
To court a distant joy, and is gay! 

A LEAF FROM THE POETREE 

Men are like bubbles. At first 
They puff up big—then burst! 


27 


NOTHING TO DO 


You’ve lost all heart and the skies look dull, 

When you ain’t got nothing to do. 

If some one would only give you a pull, 

When you ain’t got nothing to do. 

But it’js banefulness to tear your hair, 

And wail that your God has been unfair, 

Or curse your friends—like a regular bear— 
When you ain’t got nothing to do. 

Your joys are dead, and your smiles are ill, 
When you ain’t got nothing to do. 

For things bought on time you’ll get the bill 
When you ain’t got nothing to do. 

You’re lost in a crowd of your friends of old, 

Their words are keen and their hearts are cold— 
And not one of them will lend you gold— 

When you ain’t got nothing to do. 

Oh, how you long for a job that’s real, 

When you ain’t got nothing to do. 

Rather be dead, is the way you feel, 

When you ain’t got nothing to do. 

But brace up, folks, for life’s game is long, 

And there’s joy in it for the man who’s strong— 

Just do something while the world is wrong_ 

When you ain’t got nothing to do. 


AN OPTIMIST 

Though rain has peppered down all day, 
It’s caused me no concern; 

And if it rains to-night that way— 

I ’ist won’t care a dern! 


28 


AWAY ATTENDING SCHOOL 


Things ain’t the same around the old farm now 

Since Bub has gone away attending school; 

We used to fuss at all o’ his capers, but, somehow, 

Our hearts are yearning just to see him act 
the fool. 

T’ hear him sing his old songs of boyhood days 
once more 

Would make the great Caruso’s voice seem 
sadly out o’ tune; 

Er if he’d pull some joke on Pa, an’ git him half 
way sore, 

The day would be as beautiful as e’er a day in 
June. 

But he ain’t here. I tell you he is missed by 
everything, 

The cows and colts ain’t lively like afore he 
went away; 

The birds don’t gather mornin’s in the cherry-tree 
t’ sing, 

The separator’s gettin’ harder turnin’ every 
day. 

The pigs don’t grunt as usual; and the roosters 
never crow 

When the sun get’s up o’ mornin’s, like they 
used to alius do; 

An’ the gobbler’s quit his fightin’—I’d a never 
thought it, though, 

But I guess, like us, he misses Bub an’ he’s 
a-feelin’ blue. 


29 


Pa don’t even read the papers any more when 
supper’s done, 

But jes’ lights his pipe an’ nestles way down 
in his chair 

With Bub’s letters on his lap; an’ he reads them 
everyone, 

An’—like the rest o’ us—he wishes Bub was 
through down there, 

So’s to catch a train for home, and come a-stomp- 
ing through the door. 

’Twould be just like the finding of some 
precious, long-lost jewel 

If he’d kiss us all a good-night, and upstairs to 
bed, once more, 

Go like he alius did afore he went away attend¬ 
ing school. 


DEVOTION 

John bought me a new broom. 

I’m not a shirk, 

(It is a woman’s doom 
Always to work), 

Yet I can not see why 
Menfolks adjudge 
Woman to live—and die— 
Always a drudge. 

John, I have quit—you’ll rave— 
Work is too low; 

No, John, I’ll be your slave* 

I love you so! 


30 


FORGETTING 


Say, ain’t it queer how a fellar will, forgit 
When he’s a-dreaming? Only yesterday 
I set on top the pasture gate a bit 
To smoke my pipe; I let my memory stray. 

The sun hung low, it seemed had hid its face 
As if ashamed of painting such wild skies. 

I heard a lark tune up far down the place, 

And right beneath me clung two butterflies; 
Then suddenly from yonder fence emerged 
A brown head—body—and a bushy tail— 

A frisky, sprightly creature that seemed purged 
Of Life’s sad cares. The whir-r-r-ring of a quail 
Made me forgit my pipe. I jest set still 
A-thinkin’ ’bout those good old days, gone by, 
When we were boys. Were not they good ones, 
Phil— 

Those long gone days when we two, you and.I, 
Would set upon this same old gate?—You’re not 
Gone, are you—where is it you have fled ? 

How dare you leave me? Ah, well, I’d forgot— 
For six long, weary years, Phil, you’ve been dead! 


QUARRELING 

Yes, quarrel—if it is your heart’s desire— 

Hurl all the petals from your friend’s best rose; 
But cry not should you be then scorched by fire— 
The quarrelsome oft must wipe a bloody nose! 
And when your nose is wiped and eyes are dry, 
Brush up your clothes, then turn to him once 
more 

To make a friend—such friendships seldom die— 
A quarrel oft unearth’s the choicest ore. 


31 


LOVE 


Love's a little bumble-bee 

A-roaming through Life’s clover, 

Just a humble bumble-bee, 

A charming little lover; 

Kissing flowers along his way, 
A-lingering with the beauty, 
Everything must love, wise say, 

And so he does his duty. 

Love’s a songbird in a tree 
A-singing of devotion, 

By her side’s her family, 

Their eager mouths in motion. 

Soon young feathers—soon young fly— 
And soon old age o’ertakes them, 

Wise say this—and so do I— 

Folks are what Love makes them. 

Love’s a little girl I know, 

A miss whom I love dearly, 

Guess—Your sister? No! No! No! 

Not quite—but very nearly. 

All Life’s duties when begun, 

No matter how they weary, 

Must be neatly, sweetly done, 

And so—I’ll kiss you, dearie! 

A LEAF FROM THE POETREE 

If good poetry one abhors, 

Or prose, has turned him out of doors, 

Go tell him he is poor indeed— 

Though moneyed, sorely he’s in need! 

32 


MOTHER 


Ain’t a mother mighty good? 

Ain’t she fellars? Ain’t she, though? 
Things ’at she can’t do, who could? 

Tell me, fellars, ain’t it so? 

Should you bump your toe, I jing, 

Ma can cure it right away; 

She can cure ’ist anything— 

Ma’s know everything, I say! 

If a circus-show’s in town, 

An’ you’re broke, you go to her 
Beggin’ money—“Mom, the clown 
Is ’ist a sight!” W’y, yes sir, 

You git a dollar, then you skip 
Down to see the elephants. 

Feed them peanuts, bu y a whip— 

Should you tear your Sunday pants, 

Ma, at heart’s sorry for you, 

Even though she scolds a bit. 

Ain’t ma’s dandy? Ain’t they? Whew! 
Fellars, ain’t a ma ’ist it! 

Ain’t a mother mighty fine? 

Ain’t she, fellars? Ain’t she, though? 
’Sposin’ it is fishin’ time, 

An’ your Pa says you can’t go 
’Cause you’ve got some weeds to cut; 

Right then Ma comes to your aid— 

Says the weeds need cuttin’, but 

She needs you worse. ‘ Take the spade 
And your wagon to the brook, 

Bring some sand home—you might try 

33 


Fishing, if you take a hook.” 

(This she tells you on the sly). 

“ ’Course you won’t have long to stay, 
’Cause there’s lots of work to do; 
You must come back right away— 
You may stay an hour or two.” 
Then’s a time you’re glad to help 
Ma do up her work—’ist so 
You can skip off with a yelp— 

Ain’t a mother dandy, though! 


IN DREAMS 

I oft, my Love, hold you within my arms 

Against my breast and steal the sweetest sips 
Of love that e’er were stolen from two lips. 

The music of your voice my whole soul warms 
Until I’m mad from drinking in your charms. 

The gracefulness of thy soft, rounded hips 
Has dazed me, and thy smile so sweetly dips 
My soul in love my heart’s filled with alarms 
Lest I, by love, should so enraptured be 
That I’d awaken from this dream to find 

You cold and haughty—caring naught for me_ 

Thy loveliness a fancy of my mind! 

Oh, sweet are dreams—may stern reality 

Prove love e’en sweeter than for which I’ve 
pined! 


A LEAF FROM THE POETREE 

Look around you and find God, 
Even in the simple clod. 


34 


M’ FUST DATE WID SAL 


Say, nT feelin’s dey wuz big 
As I drov nT bran’ new rig 

Down to take Sal to de Chillian’s Exe’cise. 
Cou’se she met me at de gate, 

Whispered, “Mose, youse do look great”; 

An’ I sez, “I couldn’t be no udderwise!” 

As we’se lebbin’, her pa rose 
Frum his cheer an’ sed, “Say, Mose, 

I doan wanta ketch you lubbin’ up m’ Sal.” 
“Yas,” I sez, “I undahstan’, 

But I ak you dist 01’ Man: 

“How’d you ak when Jennie Crowley wuz youh 
gal?” 

No, he didn’t say no moah, 

But he shuh did slam dat doah 

As he went into de house—an’ den we’se gone. 
Evah fellah ’long de way 
Would tilt back his hat an’ say, 

To hizself, “Dat Mose wuz shuh lucky bo’n!” 

Suddenly it ’gin t’ rain 

While we’se down in lubber’s lane, 

So we cut foh church afore mos’ fo’ks got dere; 
An’ we waited on de crowd, 

Den we marched in—kinda proud— 

Boy! youh oughta seed de whole k’poodle stare! 


35 


It is moah dan yuh s’mised, 

So I ’spects youh’ll be s’prised 

When I tell it t’ youh, fo’ks, but it's a fac’— 
Ebbertime I’d steal a kiss 
Frum dat darlin’ little miss 

Den m’ con’shience hurt me so I’d gib it bac’! 

When I went t’ leb dat night 
I jes’ hugged dat gal up tight, 

An’ I told her dat I’d like t’ come some moah; 
Sunday afte’noon, at six, 

Is a date I’d lak t’ fix; 

“No,” she said, “Youh can’t come den—come 
at fouh!” 


A LEAF FROM THE POETREE 

I would that I could sit somewhere and watch my¬ 
self go by, 

I’d like to see my myriad faults that reach my 
neighbor’s eye 

As daily I am passing him—I’d drive these faults 
away, 

And greet him as a better man to-morrow, than 
to-day. 


HOMEWARD BOUND 

I always like to view new scenes, 

I sometimes think it’s nice to roam; 

But homeward bound!—How much it means 
To know that I am coming home! 

36 


A FRACTURE 


Sally went and turned me flat— 

My blood biled; 

Never’d know jes’ whar I’se at, 

’Thout dat child. 

Seemed m’ heart wuz heaped wid lead 
Frum m’ toes up to m’ head, 

An' m’ joys dey all wuz dead— 

I wuz wild! 

Said she cared no moah foh me; 
Kinda ca’m— 

Toh me dat she’d rather be 
Out wid Sam. 

“Wal,” I said, “Ef Sam’s youh beau, 
’Twaren’t me dat made ’im so! 

Come an’ kiss me—den I’ll go— 

Heah I am!” 

“No!” She turnt huh nose at me— 
Sally did. 

Said she’s glad dat she wuz free; 

But she hid 

Huh face in huh han’s an’ cried 
Lak huh heart wuz bustin’ wide— 
Makin’ room foh me—inside— 

So it did! 


ANGER 

The wild and sullen clouds draw swiftly near. 

A thunderbolt! and then, in frenzied wrath, 
The storm hurls by! A friendship once held dear 
Lies mangled in the wild tornado’s path. 


37 


THE MUSE SENDS THE RUSTIC COURTING 


My dear Pegasus I bestride 
And up Parnassus scurry; 

A rustic bard would win a bride, 

And that is why I hurry. 

I need not speak the words to you— 

Full well you know my wishes; 

My eyes say, “Do you love me true?” 

Your answer—two soft blushes ! 

Sagacious Truth says you are fair, 

And Wisdom boasts about you, 

Soft Modesty is in your air, 

Sweet Virtue ne’er without you. 

The fires of Love blaze in your eyes, 

Who drowns them—woe be to him! 

I’ll choke the brute, and as he dies 
I’ll drive a dagger through him! 

No doubt you’ve had a dozen beaus 
Who spoke their love so neatly 

You nigh said “yes”, but gave them “noes”— 
And pleased them all completely! 

There now comes one, a rhyming lad, 

Whose heart is quite unruly; 

His pen, he says, is wildly mad 
If he loves not you truly! 


38 


Forgive the Bard! Forgive the Muse! 

The latter is the sinner, 

’Twas she who urged, “0 Poet, use 
Your singing-art to win her!” 

And so I sing—and so I pray 
That time shall not dissever 
Thou, Love, from me a single day, 

But be you mine forever! 


ONE SMILE FROM YOU 


Just one smile from you, dear, 
Changes night to day, 
Brings the shining sun, 

Drives the clouds away, 
Awakens lovely flowers, 

None which could compare 
With my smiling rosebud— 
You, my lady fair! 

Makes the birds sing softer 
From out leafy trees, 

And the nectar sweeter, 
Gathered by the bees. 

All Life’s joys are rebuilt 
Beautifully anew, 

Since it was I caught, dear, 
Just one smile from you. 


39 


NICKNAMES 


Some folks call me Willie Boy, 

Others call me Bill; 

Never did hear by real name— 
Guess I never will. 

Ain’t much difference, you see, 

But, to be egzac’ 

Jackie alius pleases me— 

When she calls me Jack. 

Billy is another name 
That I am known by; 

Guess I’ll have a million names— 
Nicknames—’fore I die. 

But I won’t get sore, you bet; 

’Stead I’ll holler back: 

“Go on! Jackie’s sweeter ’n you_ 

’Cause she calls me Jack!” 

Don’t know where she got that name, 
Never’d get her tell, 

But it is the bestus one— 

I just think it’s swell. 

Sometimes, dreamin, in my chair, 

Kinda leanin’ back, 

I still hear her calling me: 

“Hello—that you, Jack?” 


40 


AFTER SERVICES 


The final prayer was said at last, 

And hardly said before stood waiting 

We eager youths to see trip past 

Sweet winsome lassies, ripe for mating. 

And as they, smiling, left the hall 
Full oft one of us, sorely smitten, 

Longed to step out in front of all— 

But quavered, lest he get the mitten. 

I saw her coming—stopped her! Oh, 

My lack of words grew quite alarming. 

I don’t know what I said, although 

She smiled and said: “ ’Twould be most charm¬ 
ing !” 

I felt her gently take my arm, 

Then we strolled slowly down a by-way; 

We took the sweet way to Hill Farm— 

And left the old folks to the highway. 

Her hand touched mine! I felt a thrill— 

A thrill too sweet for poem or story. 

Of happiness I drank until 

That summer night seemed wild with glory. 

Too soon we reached the porch vine-hid, 

Too soon our blissful journey ended; 

Pray, Reader, ask not how we bid 

Adieu —adieus should he well blended! 


41 


We heard the old folks at the gate, 

We knew the time had come to sever; 

My heart wildly did palpitate— 

It seemed to plead: “ Tis now, or never !” 

Her lips, purer than of a nun, 

Filled my whole soul with contemplation. 
Then I—Ah, well! ’twas quickly done— 
Sampled Love’s sweetest osculation. 


A LOVE LETTER 

There’s a little girlie somewhere 
Whos’s as sweet as sweet can be, 

And I love her more than ever 
Every time she looks at me. 

Great blue eyes—with love a-brimming— 
Drive all sorrows from my heart; 
Cunning Cupid, I’m his captive, 

Sorely hit me with a dart. 

Just as roses when they’re skipping 
To the wind-songs, so I find, 

Are her blushes! Tell me, Cupid, 

Is it true that Love is blind? 

Yes, he answers, but a lover— 

If he loves a maiden true, 

Always will write her love-letters_ 

See, I’ve written one to you! 


42 


THE MENDIT MAN 


The Mendit Man came to our house 
Last spring while Ma was gone; 
’Though Sairey Ann told him to leave, 
He kept a-hanging on 
A-trying t’ sell her them there things 
You use in fixin’ pans; 

He kept a-beggin’ till he got 
A pan of Sairey Ann’s, 

An’ fixed it. Well, she bought a box. 
An’—-he was single, too ! 

Of course he stayed to chat a while— 
As single folks will do. 

Before he left he’d fixed Ma’s pans— 
Regardless of the leak; 

Besides, he’d promised Sairey Ann 
That he’d call once a week 
To learn if they were holdin’ well, 

Or had the slightest need 
Of being tightened up a bit— 

' His work was guaranteed! 

Quite well he made his words all good; 

. Each week he came to see 
If all the pans were holdin’, an’— 

To keep his guarantee! 

Then business rushed; an’ finally 
He twice a week did call; 

He fixed Ma’s old pans, and her new; 

In fact—he fixed them all, 

But didn’t charge a fancy price, 

Like most old agents do. 

He said he liked to help folks out— 
Sairey was single, too! 


43 


Well, now to make my story short, 

And oh! the ending’s sweet, 

On New Year’s Eve to town they went 
And fixed things up complete. 

Of course I like to tease them, but 
They laugh at puns I fling, 

“For,” Sairey says, “A Mendit Man 
Can just fix anything!” 


A LOVER QUESTIONS 

If I should tell you that your eyes 
Were bluer than the fairest skies; 

Or whisper that the moon’s bright beam 
Looks faded by your face’s gleam; 

I I should say your harshest word 
Rang sweeter than the notes one heard 
When birds sing, and your sweet lips 
Shamed honey that the wild bee sips 
From out the clover’s petaled cup— 
Would you then cruelly give me up— 
Afraid my mind, lovesick, was mad ? 

Or would you make my lorn heart glad 
By telling me, “Well done! Well done! 
Ah! Noble Lover, thou hast won?” 


LOST LOVE 

Yesterday I lay my head 

’Gainst a rose, I thought. Instead, 

’Twas a thorn on which I lay_ 

My heart bears a scar to-day. 

44 


I CAN NOT WRITE YOU ANY MORE 


I can not write you any more! 

Oh! cruel those words are to my ears. 
Thy nearness, ne'er so felt before, 

In wond’rous splendor now appears. 

How sad ! How sad ! it is, sweet maid, 

To see your charms so freshly bloom— 

In tender gaudiness arrayed— 

While back of them steals swiftly gloom. 


I can not write you any more! 

My sad heart's aching at the thought! 
If we could only live life o'er— 

And yet—I’m glad that we can not— 
For maybe we might never know 

A friendship, like ours, clad so pure— 

A friendship that must always grow 
In silence, yet will e’er endure. 


I can not write you any more! 

None ever knew a line more dire. 

Come, dearest, loved-one, I implore— 

Help me to quench the blazing fire 
Before it brands my soul. Come, dear, 

And write me just another line; 

E'en though to him you do appear 

To be all his—you're mine! You're mine! 


45 


TWO PRISONERS 


TO A CAGED CANARY 

0 lovely bird, thy songs thou dost sing well. 

Sweet notes of cheer! and yet they lack that 
tang 

That marks the value of true happiness. Thy cell 
Hast robbed thy soul and left thee Slavery's 
pang. 

Sweet bird, how canst thou sing those tender 
songs ? 

How canst thou find the courage to devote 
Thy life to cheering a grave world that wrongs 
Thee?—Hope of Freedom’s back of every note! 

TO A YOUNG LADY—ENGAGED 
Sweet Love, thou too dost sing a cheerful song, 
Thy tones are rich, yet there’s a hollow ring 

To every note; the world hast done thee wrong_ 

Dan Cupid is a treacherous, lying thing! 

0 Love, how canst thou sing with such a grace? 
P ow ca ?st thou smile for me so beautifully 

While moping sadness hides behind thy face?_ 

Ah! thy heart, too, is longing to be free! 


JUNE 

Tis the month that Cupid sends 
Out his keenest, sweetest darts 

To fond lovers; then it ends_ 

All that lonesomeness of hearts! 
Fireflies flashing through the night 
And the bullfrog’s deep basson, ' 
thrill one with a sweet delight— 

0, who wouldn’t love you, June! 

46 


AN ACCIDENTAL PROPOSAL 


It was a clear warm autumn’s day, 

And skies o’erhead were blue, 

When two young folks threw cares away 
And built their hopes anew. 

Of course John Potts was anxious fer 
T’ marry Sairey Jane; 

And Sairey—she was anxiouser! 

They strolled down through the lane, 
Then out acrost the medder-lot, 

And back along the creek. 

’Twas plain John had his mind all sot, 
But lips jes’ wouldn’t speak 
Those tender words he wished to say. 

No matter how he’d try, 

There’d something come into his way— 
Thus each chance slipped him by. 

And what of Sairey? W’y, she, too, 

Was willin’ fer the word, 

And helped as much as she could do. 

’Twas thus that it occurred: 

Out in the orchard both did stop, 

While wending their way back, 

Just as an apple—from the top— 

Took Sairey Jane KER SMACK! 


47 


She screamed, “Oh, my !” and fell into 
Those strong arms of John Potts’; 
’Though ’twaren’t a proper thing to do— 

It helped matters a lots, 

Fer Sairey, when she swooned, then threw 
Both arms about John’s neck 
And moaned, “0 John, I do love you!” 

John cried, “I, too, by heck!” 

They hitched up Jake and druv to town; 

John said, while on the way, 

“An apple-tree is nice aroun’— 

When there’s some words to say!” 

A LOVER’S SONG 

Come, cheer me with your laughter, 

Come, cheer me with a song— 

Then we will dance the whole night long, 
And sleep the next day after. 

A wee, small while for scheming, 

Beneath a silv’ry moon, 

With hearts as warm as summer’s noon 
And troubles lost in dreaming. 

A proper time for saying 

Those words I’ve wished to say; 

A tender, Yes”,—our hearts are gay— 
Then no more need for praying. 

A long, long time to weep in, 

A time to laugh, My Love, 

Then we’ll receive, from God above, 
Eternity to sleep in! 


48 


REPENTANT 


When I into her eyes did gaze 

A sudden thrill raced down my spine; 

One glance from her would me amaze, 

And oft I’ve wished that she were mine. 

A hundred loves, on crystal wings, 

When once she looked, began their flights. 

A hundred lovers—beggars—kings— 

Reaped broken hearts for such delights. 

One Cupid, smiling, left her eyes 
To aim an arrow at my heart; 

But, frightened at my loud out-cries, 

The Archer dropped His golden dart. 

And yet I live! But why should I ? 

Dan Cupid’s wounds are free from pain; 

Unhappily I pine and sigh, 

And wish I had—by Love—been slain! 


MAY 

May, sweet maiden, gowned in green, 
Bringing orchards in full bloom, 
’Tis the time to crown the Queen 
Of the May; your sweet perfume 
Wins the love of every bee 

So’s it courts you through the day; 
Then at night dreams—same as me— 
Of you winsome, merry May! 


49 


DREAMS 


Dearest, if I could but only 
Do the things I long to do, 

Never once would thou feel lonely— 
Always would I be with you. 

A castle beautiful I’d build thee, 

Slaves I’d bring thee, finely dressed— 

Slaves to serve thee; but, my dearest, 
Always would I serve thee best. 

On the throne of Love I’d crown thee 
Queen of queens; and I would boast, 

E’en though God himself did love thee, 

I had always loved thee most. 

Dreams—I’m ever dreaming, dearest! 
Dreams—miraculous ! Untrue! 

All I have I’d give thee, dearest— 

A lover’s heart I offer you! 


HER EYES 

Her eyes are like two clear blue lakes 
Hiding below soft misty clouds. 

And when she smiles, her smile awakes 
The devil’s imps in fiery shrouds; 

Then, hand in hand, they dance and sing 
Around a fire that never dies; 

’Twas Love who fired the devilish things_ 

And oh! I love, I love her eyes! 

50 


JOLLY WILLIE 


(To the tune of an old Scotch song) 
0 Willie, jolly Willie, 

He says such funny things; 

It’s worth a box of chocolates 
To hear him when he sings; 

He’s always cutting capers, 

He’s lively and he’s clever, 

And oh! I think I’ll love him 
Forever—and forever! 

0 Willie, jolly Willie, 

He dearly loves the moon, 

For when he sees it shining 
It makes him want to spoon; 

He’s faster than the dickens 
At times, but he’s so clever 
I think I’ll have to love him 
Forever—and forever! 

O Willie, jolly Willie, 

There ne’er was such another; 
He’s well-liked by my Daddie— 

He’s dearly loved by Mother. 

I’ve tried to learn to hate him, 

But I can never, never; 

So, I’ll just love my Willie 
Forever—and forever ! 


51 


THE GIRL I LOVE 


The girl I love is good enough for me! 

What if her eyes do not appeal to you? 

I look into them and I plainly see 

A love as pure and sweet as morning’s dew. 
How blind you are! you do not catch the grace 
With which she moves—I’m sure ’tis very 
clear; 

There’s true devotion in her smiling face— 

It seems to softly beckon: “Come, come Dear!” 

The girl I love is good enough for me—- 
If I am just the man she’d have me be! 

The girl I love is good enough for me! 

What if her form is not what you prefer? 
She has a form that I delight to see— 

The very one that I would choose for her. 

Her hair’s the dark brown color I desire, 

I’m sure her voice the angels love to hear. 

My spirits soar and troubles all retire 

When her smile beckons, softly: “Come, come 
Dear!” 

The girl I love is good enough for me_ 

If I am just the man she’d have me be! 


BORED 

To-day I drilled with a bace and bit 
Into a nest where bumble-bee snored * 
And when they came out and made me git 
I heard one say that he felt bored. 

52 


WHEN MA’S BOBBIN RUNS OUT 


Stitch-a-stitch-stitch! Stitch-a-stitch-stitch 
Swiftly singing—upward and down 
The needle glides—stitch-a-stitch-stitch! 
Mother's face grows dark from a frown. 

She gets as mad as hornets do, 

And rears and tears—I’ve not a doubt 
But she’d scare bears to death—Yee-hoo! 
It’s fun when Ma’s bobbin’ runs out! 

Stitch-a-stitch-stitch! Stitch-a-stitch-stitch 
Swiftly singing—upward and down 
The needle glides—stitch-a-stitch-stitch! 
Mother’s face is no more a-frown. 

Now she’s wearing a joyful smile, 

Scorning troubles that romp about; 

She sees the joke, and she laughs a while— 
It’s fun when Ma’s bobbin’ runs out! 


QUIET LOVE 

Love just says the simple things 
In a quiet way; 

Speak your love, and ’twill grow wings 
So’s to fly away. 

Sudden gales are hers to shun, 

She prefers her ease; 

Any maiden’s quickest won 
Sailing quiet seas. 


53 


THE HIPPERCRIT 


Folks said he was a Hippercrit— 

They called him things far worse. 
They prophesied the Bad would git 
Him—soon he’d need a hearse. 

Afore he’d ever grow to be 
Up big and tall, a man, 

They swore that, he’d run off to sea, 

Er lose his mind—my lan’! 

But he just let them throw their jeers, 

He didn’t care a whit; 

His thirst for knowledge, it appears, 
Was back of all of it. 

His pa would order him to go 
Upstairs and get in bed, 

And he would go; but, don’t you know, 
The youngster always read 
Till twelve o’clock—an’ sometimes one— 
Er else he’d sit and write 

.Those stories of his—just for fun_ 

(Folks said this was a fright! 

They told him that his brain was lame, 
His thoughts all had the gout;) 

Now he’s a novelist of fame, 

An’ rich as all git out! 


CONCEITED 

A rooster is the vainest thing 
That lives these days, I know; 
No matter what he does, bv iine* 
He’s allurs gotta crow. 


54 


THE RHEUMATIZ 


Come mornin’s Pa gets out o’ bed 
With pains in that oP back o’ his; 

He rubs an’ grunts an’ limps aroun’, 
An’ swears he’s got the rheumatiz. 

My Ma has even ketched it, too; 

(She ketches ever’thing there is) ; 

I heard her tell Pa her arm hurt so, 
She knowed she had the rheumatiz. 

An’ Eph has had it all his life— 

Eph’s our hired-hand; an’ sister, Liz, 

Has got a stiff neck—she declares 
It’s ’ist that afful rheumatiz. 

I dropped Pa’s hatchet on my toe, 

An’ mashed it, an’ a blister riz 

A way up big—an’ I, of course, 

Tell folks I’ve got the rheumatiz! 


SELF-INVITED 

• (To Mrs. 0. A. Thomas) 
Blessings on thee, honest wife, 
For thy victuals splendid; 

Not a show of dainties rife— 
Just a course well blended. 

’Twas a pleasant meal I found, 
’Twould please saint or sinner; 
Say, when I’m again around, 

I’ll drop in for dinner! 


55 


WHEN SISTER’S GOT A BEAU 


Say, ain’t home just an awful place 
When sister’s got a beau? 

Ma makes you scrub your ears and face 
When sister’s got a beau; 

She pulls your necktie ’til it’s straight; 
Your feet—oh, name a sadder fate!— 
Must hide in shoes—without debate— 
When sister’s got a beau! 


If at the table, you must be— 

When sister’s got a beau— 

A gentleman, and mannerly. 

When sister’s got a beau 

Of course you’ll say, “Yes, sir,,’ “Yes, please”, 
“Will you have some of those or these?” 

You daren’t laugh, ner cough, ner sneeze— 
When sister’s got a beau! 


You seldom get to say a word, 

When sister’s got a beau, 

For “Boys are better seen than heard”_ 

When sister’s got a beau. 

You daren’t shout, you mustn’t sing, 

Ner say “I gee”, “I gum”, “I jing”— 

Oh, well, a boy can’t do a thing 
When sister’s got a beau ! 


56 


WHILE BROTHER WRITES A POEM 


(In retaliation) 

Well, home is just as bad, I guess, 
While brother writes a poem, 

As ’tis when sister’s beau comes. Yes, 
While brother writes a poem, 

We’ve got to move ’round on tip-toe, 
We mustn’t speak to him—no ! no! 

And every thing must be just so 
While brother writes a poem! 

Life at our house is full of gloom 
While brother writes a poem. 

There’s no one dares go near his room, 
While brother writes a poem. 

He simply must be left alone— 

He says his room is all his own— 

Oh any girl, I’m sure, would groan 
While brother writes a poem. 

From out his room come noises queer 
While brother writes a poem; 

He mutters and he hums—oh, dear! 

While brother writes a poem 
I’d rather be far, far away— 

A million miles, or so—and stay 
Where I, the piano, could play 
While brother writes a poem! 


57 


BACK AT BOGGSTOWN 


I’d like to go to Boggstown! Yes, I’d like to go 
back there 

Where the girls ain’t powdered ghosts, or ain’t 
scandalized their hair, 

Where the women folks dress decent, and the 
pretty ones ain’t proud, 

And I ain’t got no feelin’s that I’m in a New York 
crowd 

’Cause there ain’t no millionaires, in fine buzz- 
carts, whizzin’ by, 

A-coverin’ you with dust, but afraid to holler, 
“Hi!” 

There they call you by your first name—none of 
your “Mister” stuff— 

And they’ll shake your hand—gracious !—like 
they’d never get enough. 

I’d like to go to Boggstown! Yes, and meet old 
friends once more. 

I’d like to cross the railroad and bang into Strick- 
ler’s store 

Where I’d pull a chair up closely, and I’d line in 
with the bunch 

That’s a-tellin’ whoppin’ tales—while their women 
wait for lunch. 

I d like to pitch some pennies—and win—like I 
used to do, 

Er hang around the depot when the old “four 
train” puffs through. 

I’d like to cross the medder where the dandelions 
bloom 

To see Fletch spit t’backer-juice clean out acrost a 
room! 


58 


I’d like to go to Boggstown, and view the whole 
town over— 

Back where Fd be as happy as a bumble-bee in 
clover. 

A month Fd like to spend there, jest a-visitin’ 
relations, 

A-callin’ in my old pals and a-eating up their 
rations. 

I’ve been around the globe twice, and Fve lived in 
Signapore, 

Fve been in “high society”, spent what I made— 
and more! 

Fve viewed the sights of Athens, scanned the 
Woolworth building tall, 

But, say, fer friends and joys—I tell you—Boggs¬ 
town beats them all! 


FIRST SONG OF SPRING 

A robin, merry harbinger of spring, 

Sat in my cherry-tree and piped his songs— 
Songs so full, so sweet, they seemed to fling 
A shadow of forgetfulness o’er wrongs. 

A violet, creeping forth from shaded moss, 

Half turned its head for that inspiring note— 
Thus resting, dreaming, seeming much at loss 
How to account for such a wond’rous poet. 

I, like the violet, could believe it not, 

’Though in the tree—away not quite a rod— 
The robin sat. Those tender strains I caught 
Were not the bird’s, but that sweet voice of 
God. 


59 


APRIL FOOL 


My Pa is ’bout the funniest chap 
A fellar ever saw, 

He likes to play a joke on me, 

Er Eph-ra-ham, er Ma. 

But if we turn the joke on him— 

It ain’t quite to his fancy— 

He says we’ll have to quit these jokes, 
Er else he’ll raise ol’ Nancy. 

Well, yesterday was April Fool, 

An’ me an’ Eph agreed 
We’d have to play a joke on Pa— 
He’d just begun to read 
When I yelled out: “Lan’ sakes, Dad, 
The barn has caught a-fire!” 

(I’ll bet he jumped up two feet high, 
Er maybe two feet higher!) 

He made a wild dash for the barn 
Without his coat or hat, 

And frantically he cried to me: 

“Oh, where’s the fire at?” 

I said: “Now please be quiet, Pa, 

You see it’s just this way— 

There really isn’t any fire— 

It’s April Fool to-day!” 

Then Dad took out his pocket-knife 
And cut a peach-tree sprout. 

He said: “Instead of facing me, 

You’d better turn about. 

A trick like that ain’t very smart 
My lad, you’re far too gay, 

You didn’t think I’d lick you, but_ 

It’s April Fool to-day!” 

60 


APRIL SHOWERS 


A happy welcome to you, Spring, 

With gifts of pleasant childhood hours; 

*Tis time to hear the robin sing 

His joyous praise of April showers. 

The warm sun flirts with emrald fields, 

And smiles on hordes of new-born flower? 

Our violet bed a perfume yields— 

Its sweetest, “Thanks for April showers.” 

The children saunter to the wood 

To seek again those shady bowers 

Beneath the oaks that long have stood 
And welcomed April’s natal showers. 

We’ve ceased to kneel at Winter’s feet— 

Miss Spring wears now the regal powers; 

Ah! who could name a time as sweet 

As sunshine, mixed with April showers! 


PULLING THE WISHBONE 

I like the turkey, ’cause it’s then 
We git th’ wishbone—me an’ sis— 
An’ hold it ’neath th’ table. When 
We git our wishes made we is’ 
Grabs real tight; an’ we pull! Oh, gee, 
Seems like I alius gits th’ werst— 
She says ’tain’t safe t’ wait ’pon me, 
Though I am ’sposed t’ marry ferst. 

61 


SUGARIN’ TIME 

Heigh! Ho, for spring an’ its rain-clad skies, 
When snows get slushy, though winds are raw, 
An’ robins are singing—w’y, a boy mos’ dies, 
Waitin’ fer th’ maples to thaw. 

Out in the morning a-drillin’ the holes, 

Workin’ an’ laughin’—one’s spirits are gay, 
When he hangs the first bucket—his tongue jis’ 
rolls, 

While the sugar-warter drips away. 

’Nen bilin’ it down! By a vat t’ sit, 

Dreamin’ o’ cakes, with syrup and sassafrass 
tea, 

Iz th’ nex’ thing t’ Heaven—I can’t deny it— 
Sugarin’ time’s got me! 


A LOVER’S DREAM 

I took Contentment for a wife, 

And settled in the town of Life. 

Upon the street of Glad Sunshine 
We builded well Hope’s mansion fine; 
Around it Joys bloomed apace, 

Sweet Happiness perfumed the place. 
Faith had we for our sky above; 

For lunch—why, we just dined on Love! 


AGREEABLE 

How do you like this weather, folks? 

I’ll tell you what I’m betting_ 

For such wet, gloomy days as these, 
The weather’s nice we’re getting. 

62 


THE HERO 


While strolling through the woods to-day, 

I thought I heard an old oak say: 

"Just look at that scared little kid!” 

I'll tell you my blood boiled, it did! 

You bet I’s mad—you would be, too, 

If some old tree made fun of you. 

Well, I stepped right up to that tree 
And dared it to make fun of me. 

I called it a big fraidy-cat— 

Ugly—awkward—clumsy—fat— 

Afraid of winds; w’y, when they blow, 

I says, you cry and tremble so 
That folks has got so now they laugh 
And call an oak a cowardy-calf! 

The oak got mad as mad could be, 

Then wouldn’t say a word to me— 

And that’s what caused our awful fight. 

I hit that tree with all my might 
And broke my paw-paw club into; 

I cracked another; then cracked two; 

And next a hickory club I broke— 

The old tree groaned at every stroke 
And angrily its limbs it swung, 

But I just dodged and hollered: “STUNG!” 

I guess that David chap, of old, 

Who stoned those giants and knocked them cold, 
Was not a half as brave as me 
A-fightin’ there with that big tree! 


63 


And, finally, I conquered it! 

The old tree begged for me to quit— 

I says: “All right, this time I’ll stop, 

But you had better watch, old top— 

The next time that we have a scrap 
I’ll simply wipe you off the map! 

I guess, since I have walloped you, 

That you have learned a thing or two; 

Now, just because you’re big and tall, 

Don’t think you’ll scare me, ’cause I’m small— 
No, sir, you can’t! For folks like me 
Won’t scare at anything, “I gee!” 

A squirrel jumped from a nearby tree— 

That’s why I left so suddenly! 


TO A LOST SWEETHEART 

On nights like these, 

When winds lie still— 

Asleep in bed—as breezes should, 

A wise old moon peeps o’er the hill 
And smiles as only a moon could. 

On nights like these, 

When we strolled, owls cried 
Oft right o’er us so suddenly, 

With fear you shrank unto my side, 
O’erflowing my heart with ecstacy. 

On nights like these— 

But I’ve lost you, dear— 

Another now boasts of your every charm_ 

I pray to God, “May I sometime hear 
lour voice, as we again stroll arm in arm, 

On nights like these!” ’ 


64 


APRIL 


April, here’s our hand to you! 

Lightly tune your instrument 
So’s to play the songs anew— 
Springtime’s songs of merriment. 
Dripping! Dripping! falls the rain, 
The glad sunshine joins the june; 
Robins pipe a sweet refrain: 

“April, you are gone too soon!” 


SUNDAY MORNING 

This is Sunday morning— 
Everybody’s busy; 

Pap’s in the garage 
Workin’ on old Lizzie; 
Brother’s on the crick-bank, 
’Cause he’s been a-wishin’ 
Sunday’d roll aroun’ so’s 
He could go a-fishin’. 

Ephram’s finished shavin’, 

Now he’s dressing up, 

He’s going down to Hyman’s 
To play some seven-up. 

Sister’s swept and dusted, 
Everything looks pert, 

She’s gonna have a fellar— 

I mustn’t track in dirt. 

Though the milk’s been cared for, 
Still our family labors— 

Mam’s at the telephone 

Talkin’ ’bout the neighbors! 

65 



A CALL OF THE OPEN 


This weather sorta tires me of the theories of 
my books, 

I kinda hate to swelter here beneath a blazing 
sun; 

It seems I gotta hit the trail a-leading to the 
brooks, 

Out there in the country where one’s soul is 
free to run. 

There I like to huddle in a willow’s shady arms 

With my hooks a-dangling in the waters deep 
and clear; 

It’s great to flirt with Nature, for that lady’s 
splendid charms 

Would set the tamest fellow wild when fishin’ 
time’s here. 

If my campfire’s a-burning, and gay crickets loud¬ 
ly sing, 

While an owl up in a maple keeps demanding * 
“Who are you?” 

I enjoy them; and the bullfrog, w’at’s a-hollerin’ 
by the spring, 

Drowns out memories of past days when I was 
a-feeling blue. 

Yes, my heart o erflows with happiness, my wor¬ 
ries all take wing, 

As I’m dreaming happy dreams on my fireside 
couch of sod. 

Say, just talk of all your joys, w’y you don’t know 
a thing 

A half as sweet as out of doors—arm in arm 
with God! 


66 


SPRING 


When breezes are soft and skies are blue, 

And I haven’t a thing to do, 

I hie to a scene where the sycamores lean, 
And the robin sings as he lightly wings 
From tree to tree; and Reddy Squirrel, he 
Sits on a stump and peeks at me 
As I lie on the bank ’neath an old beech-tree 
(That’s as old as my Ma and my Pa and me) 
A-looking down in the waters near; 

And they’re so clear 

Little fish I see ’neath the logs. Gee, 

But they’re restless. My! but I 
Wish I could swim like a fish, 

Or sing like a redbird pal of mine 
Who carols to me so gleefully! 

Or the wren that warbles a song as fine 
As a song could be. Little chickadee 
From one limb to another fits, 

Ever in melody; and Bob White sits 
On an old rail fence, from hence 
He whistles his best of a hidden nest; 

Gay violets nod and smile to God, 

While listless ferns with the breezes sway; 
A rabbit hops from a brush-pile and stops— 
Then sleepily, lazily blinks away! 


A FARM-BOY’S VERSION 

I don’t see why I have to use 

The garden-rake and spade and hoe— 
I always did hate to abuse 

The pretty little weeds that grow. 


67 


LET ME FISH 


Give me a pole, a hook, a line, 

A can o’ bait, the glad sunshine 
Of a spring day, a still creek nigh, 

A lazy breeze, a cloudless sky— 

Then let me fish! 

Gay old robin, sweetly pour 
Your love-runes—in a sycamore. 

Old bright-red-head, you just sit, 

Busy fellow, and drum on it— 

And let me fish! 

Go to town to your movie-show, 

Take long jaunts in your fine auto, 

Find your pleasures where’er you will, 

But as fer me—back o’ the mill— 

Jest let me fish! 

TALES OF FISHING 

When you’ve fished a whole day through, 

And you haven’t caught a thing— 

Not a solitary fish for all your labors_ 

You may be a-feeling blue, 

But you shouldn’t—you can bring 
An amazing big fish-story to your neighbors. 

FITTING 

I got my first long pants to-day— 

My mother sure had a fit; 

But she had something, I must say_ 

Unluckily—I didn’t git. 

68 


AIN’T IT HOT TO-DAY 

When the sun is jist a-boilin’, 

And the brooks are dry, 

Then I long to quit my toilin’ 4 

Fer a tree nearby; 

Bees ’roun’ in the blossoms hummin’ 
Sweetly seem to say: 

“Ain’t you glad that Autumn’s cornin’? 
Ain’t it hot to-day?” 

When I long to go a-fishin’ 

Down aroun’ the bend, 

Seems, no matter how I’m wishin’, 
Work will never end. 

“Pa,” I’ll ask, “Might I be goin’ 

To the creek?” He’ll say: 

“Younker, keep right on a-hoein’ ”— 
Ain’t it hot to-day! 

AUGUST 

August! Now the tired lake swoons 
Undisturbed by e’en a breeze; 

Robins quit their cheery tunes 
And drowse idly in the trees. 

These are warm days—these the kind 
For which we all spring have prayed; 
Therefore, worry not to find 

Farmhands snoring in the shade. 

GOD’S GENTLEMEN 

When sweet summer breezes blow, 
Every maple in our row 
Makes a gentlemanly bow— 

It was God who taught them how. 


69 


AN AUTUMN SONG 


A % happy time, a snappy time, 

The summer now is over, 

Soft fires begin to murmur 
And to chuckle on the grate 

The golden rod is blooming, while 
The bees have left the clover, 

And fodder-shocks—brown wigwams— 
Proudly rustle and elate. 

A hoary time, a glory time, 

A time for love and laughter, 

A time to sing our sweetest 

As we heap the winter’s store; 

Our cider’s in the cellar, pop¬ 
corn’s drying on a rafter, 

And pumpkins—autumn’s golden hoard_ 

Are on the attic floor. 

A merry time, an airy time, 

The hickory-nuts are falling, 

And gipsy leaves are chasing 
One another on the ground; 

Down the fence-row yonder 

Are a pair of quails a-calling, 

And—sudden-like—a rabbit 
Leaves his brush-pile with a bound. 

70 


A worry time, a hurry time, 

Old winter comes a-wailing, 

And with his icy fingers 

He w^ould pinch us every one, 
But we’ll just scorch his coat-tails, 
With a fire, as they come trailing, 
And laugh—as loud as blazes— 
When we see the rascal run! 


A DAY IN LATE OCTOBER 

The clover frowns deserted 
By its troubadours, the bees— 
Like every one that’s flirted— 

Have forgotten, and the trees 
Are shedding summer’s dresses— 
Making room for new next year, 
The golden rod’s gay tresses 
Have begun to disappear. 

Swift geese are southward flying 
Where no winter winds are chill, 
The summach’s leaves, now dying, 
Are a-blaze on every hill. 

Around me nuts come falling 
With a clatter to the ground, 

I hear the distant bawling 
Of a huntsman’s eager hound. 

’Tis plain! the summer’s ended, 

And old winter’s on its way; 

But, oh, how sweet when blended— 
Just as richly as today! 


71 


GOOLEE-GOO LAND 


I’ve been a-visiting in Goolee-Goo Land, 

Where folks freeze ice-cream by a fire; 

And bury their dead to tunes of a band, 

Then dance by the hymns of the choir. 

Out there in the summertime snows fall deep, 
While winters are sunny and dry; 

The farmers plow rivers to sow their sheep, 

And chocolate-bars grow in the sky. 

Fancy kid gloves are worn on their feet, 

The hand is their place for a shoe; 

Their horses go: “Baa-a-a !” their little pigs bloat, 
And roosters don’t crow, but they “Moo-o-!” 

The houses are all setting upside down; 

The moon only shines through the day: 

At nights the sun burns, while the fish fly around, 
And the plows pull the horses, they say. 

It’s a queer place, it is, and I don’t understand 
Just why they have such funny laws— 

One’s gotta buy presents, in Goolee-Goo Land, 

On Christmas for old Santa Claus! 


REFLECTIONS 

Of mornings roosters always crow, 

And birds sit ’round in trees and sing; 
And, if I didn’t have to work, I know 
I’d just do the same darned thing. 

72 


PERT NIGH THANKSGIVING 


Morn is snugly bundled 
In a dress of hoary; 

Sturdy trees are shorn 
Of their wond’rous glory. 

Birds have southward flown, 
Autumn’s winds are chill, 

Golden rod and summac 
Blaze on every hill, 

Fer 

it’s 

pert 

nigh 

Thanksgiving! 

Pumpkins in the attic, 

Big and ripe and yellow; 

Baldwins in the cellar 
Would please any fellow. 

Dad gets down his fiddle 
So’s to drive ’way gloom— 

Soon our whole family’s ’ist 
A-waltzing ’roun’ the room 
When 
it’s 
pert 
nigh 

Thanksgiving! 


73 


THE MAN I HATE 
I tell you, there’s one man I hate— 

The man who’ll argue and debate 
A question fer a half a day 
Jest so’s to have the thing his way. 

W’y, one day down at Strickler’s store, 

There must have been fifteen, or more, 

Argued the color of Smith’s shed— 

Some said ’twas yaller—some said red. 

Hot words were back and forwards flipped, 
But neither side’d own up whipped. 

01’ Pleas Hanks said he jest knowed 
The shed was yaller—and he blowed 
Up like and adder—made me hot, 

’Cause I jest knowed the thing was not. 

I jumped up from m’ box and sez, 

“I’ll bet a fat hog it ain’t, Pleas! 

I bet it’s red as red can be; 

Now where’s your nerve?—come bet with me. 
Pleas, you think you know ever’thing, 

But I know more’n you, I jing!” 

Pleas jumped up crying: “I insist 
That shed is yaller—here’s m’ fist 
T’ back me up! Come on, you dunce, 

I’ll prove I’m right—and that at once!” 

An’ I went right in after him; 

Ef ’thadn’t been fer Lan’ and Jim 
A-grabbin’ me, he’d got a hit— 

An’ mebbe me. We settled it 

When Smith appeared upon the scene 

And swore the dad-burned thing was green! 

I tell you I hate any man 
Who’ll sit aroun’ an’ argue strong 
A question—jest because he can— 

When all along he knows he’s wrong. 

74 


DECEMBER 


It’s December! Snows are deep, 
Winter winds whirl moaning by. 
Boys and girls down hillsides steep 
Speed their sleds with joyous cry. 
Santa Claus, with well-packed sleigh, 
Anxiously awaits that morn 
When all children’s hearts beat gay— 
When our Saviour, Christ, was born. 


PA’S RAZOR-STROP 

Whenever shaving day comes ’round 
Pa takes his razor-strop 
An’ whets his razor up and down— 
C’flop! C’flip! C’flop ! 

He daubs the lather on his face, 
Then tells us kids to halt 
Our gallivantin’ ’round the place— 
Or else our sugar’s salt. 

Sometimes his razor won’t cut well, 
And then he has to stop 
To whet the thing again a spell— 
C’flop! C’flip! C’flop! 

An’ when we boys get up a fuss, 

If he would have it stop, 

He takes the razor-strop to us— 
C’FLOP! C’FLIP! C’FLOP! 


75 


A NOVEMBER THOUGHT 


The Northwind’s loudly howling, 

And the air is flecked with snow; 

Old Farmer Brown’s a-growling 

For his corn’s unshucgked, you know; 
The turkey-tom is fatter 
Than a gobbler needs to be, 

But on Thanksgiving’s platter— 

He’ll be lean enough for me! 


EPILOGUE 

Is there any use for boys? 

What’s the one for misses? 

Urchins all were made for noise— 
Little girls for kisses. 

Are there any joys in life, 

In this life of shoving? 

Yes. A man can hug his wife 
Till he tires of loving. 

What’s the use of cheeks so fair? 
Lips of richest rosy? 

They’re the cause of every pair 
Seeking new homes cozy. 

That “Some good’s in everything” 
Is Life’s one impression; 

How about these songs I sing? 
Well, I get expression ! 


76 
















